didn't seem scared anymore, but every time I mentioned leaving, the panic danced in his eyes. He was going to make a list for me, give me a place to start.
I'd seen his kind before— a herd animal, with no drive to be the bull of the pack.
There was a strange car in the driveway. A black Acura NSX, gleaming in the sun, standing like it had been there awhile— I hadn't heard it pull in. I opened the back door. A woman was in the kitchen, playing with the coffeemaker, her back to me. She was maybe thirty, thirty–five, hard to tell. Medium height, with short black hair cut in a blunt wedge, wearing a white tennis outfit. She didn't turn around, just glanced at me over one shoulder.
'Want some?'
'Some what?'
She made a little snorting noise. 'Coffee. That's all I cook.'
'No thanks,' I told her, opening the refrigerator, tapping the plastic water bottle into a glass. I sat down at the kitchen table, sipping the water. She finished what she was doing, turned to face me, leaning against the counter.
'I'm Fancy,' she said.
'You sure are.
'That's my
I looked a question over at her.
'Burke, right?'
'Yes.'
'You're the caretaker, aren't you? Yes. You look like you could take care of things.'
I didn't answer, watching her face. Her eyes were light gray, heavy with mascara and eyeliner, set wide apart with a slight Oriental fold at the corners. Her nose was small, too perfect to be factory–stock. Her chin was a tiny point, emphasized by the broad, square shape of her face. Her mouth was small, the lips almost too thick, slashed with a dark carmine that ran against the light bronze of her skin. A lamp, I figured— this one would know all about skin cancer.
'I was going to wake Randy up, get him to play some tennis with me. Work some of this off,' she said, slapping a plump thigh hard enough to leave a welt, a sharp crack in the quiet morning.
'Seems a shame,' I told her.
'Playing tennis?'
'Losing any of that.'
She flashed a smile. 'You like fat women?'
'I like curves.'
'Ummm,' she said, deep in her throat. 'Your mother ever tell you you were cute?'
'No.' As pure a truth as I'd ever tell a stranger.
She walked over to the table and sat down, holding her coffee mug in both hands. A diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist. No rings on her fingers— the nails were long, carefully crafted, the same color as her lipstick. I took out a pack of cigarettes, raised my eyebrows.
'You have nice manners,' she said.
'It's not my house.'
She nodded, reaching over to push an ashtray in front of me. I fired up a smoke, took a drag. She took the cigarette from my hand, held it to her lips, sucked in so deeply that her breasts threatened the white pullover. When she exhaled, the smoke only came out one nostril. She put the cigarette in the ashtray, turned it toward me so I could see the lipstick smear on the filter.
'Your turn,' she said.
I took another drag.
'How does it taste?'
'Hard to tell from such a little piece.'
She made that sound in her throat again. Leaned forward. 'Let's see if…' just as the kid stumbled through the door.
'Z'up?' he greeted us both.
'I thought we were going to play,' the woman said.
'Maybe later,' he mumbled, helping himself to coffee.
'Then I'll come back,' she said, getting up. As she walked toward the door, I could see the harsh red mark where her hand had marked her thigh.
'She's a bit old for you, isn't she?' I asked the kid.
'Kind of young for you, though,' he grinned back.
I tipped my water glass toward him in acknowledgment.
'She's really my mother's friend,' he said.
